...barely 90k’s into the 180k bike ride when my goal of going under 11 hours changed to one of survival. After removing the offending rose-thorn from my front-tyre and replacing the bike tube in less than 10 minutes, I rose from my haunches and straddled the bike. As I swung my leg over my seat and rear-end water bottle, the cramp crawled along my leg before sticking its fangs into my quad. I grimaced, the first time that day, and dropped my bike to the ground to relieve the pain. The owners of Heavenly Stables, who were decked out under the shade drinking their Castles and Lemon-Twist, stopped laughing. We had been joking about my position in the race and that Rynard Tissink should count his lucky stars that a thorn had hindered my progress. At that stage, as confirmed to me by a youngster who was counting all the cyclists as they went by, I was in 70th place.

The cramp tightened and it was only after bending over and rubbing the quad with both hands that it relented. I wasn’t even half way into the race and I was cramping. Not a good sign. All the winter training in the dark and cold of London would amount to very little if the cramps continued. Fatigue I can fight. Cramps are a cowardly opponent and the only way to fight them is to slow down. I remounted my Cannondale, stepping gingerly over the bike before raising it between my legs by the handlebars. I felt a twinge, in both quads this time, as I gained momentum along the coastal road. The Port Elizabeth Ironman was proving to be a formidable opponent.

One Week Earlier
It took me 24 hours to fly from London to Joburg. The stopover in Dubai dented my sleep reserves and my body ached from being cramped in the plane. Despite the trip, I was happy to be back in Joburg with the family and after having dropped my bags off at home, I was whisked away to the News Café down the road. What was meant to be a quiet drink with my dad and brothers, turned out to be my South African bachelor party. That’s what happens when your 3 brothers are your best men. I tried not to embarrass myself and even attempted to outlast the guys, but ended up passing out sometime early the next morning. The evidence on my shoes indicated that most of the alcohol that went in did in fact come out.

Drinking, it turns out, is not unlike a big training session. You get to feel elated and invincible for both, and yet extremely run down the next day. Drinking, unfortunately, has no benefits and often takes longer to recover from than a big training weekend. I, with much bravado, was confident that I’d bounce back.

The next few days involved finalising preparations for my wedding and I wanted to get as much done, so that by the time Natalie joined me in PE, we’d have nothing left to do but savour the time together.

By the time I got to PE for the Friday night Pasta Party, I was feeling much better and had shaken off the side-effects from the previous week’s debauchery. The pre-race excitement began to filter into my body and I lapped it up. The texts and mails from my friends and family added to my happy state of mind and I felt that my preparations for the Big Sunday were heading in the right direction.

Our abode for the weekend was 5 stone throws away from the beach at Chez Buhr, every athlete’s Shangri-la, where the indefatigable Steven Buhr hosted several Ironmen and their partners. It was the perfect house for athletes with plenty of space to set up your bike and a huge kitchen for preparing race bottles and nutrition. Steven was also the Ironman Director of Transitions and therefore the perfect person to provide us with regular event updates. We even had the benefit of receiving advice and tips from a visiting sub-10.30 Ironman. Triathletes have rarely had it so good.

My stomach woke me early on the Saturday morning and my usual saunter to the loo turned into a 100 metre sprint. Thankfully I just made it. Something from the night before hadn’t agreed with my tummy and everything seemed to be coming out quicker than I could put it in. It’s a big day out there and I pack my body like a musket the few days leading up to the race. This is to ensure that I’ll have plenty of glycogen to keep my muscles firing throughout the day. Alas, my system was battling to keep anything in.

Despite my reluctant stomach and regular toilet-visits I continued to eat and drink continuously throughout the day. PE was alive with excitement and Ironman energy and there was no way I’d miss this race for all the cookies in the world.

Race Day
They make them strong in SA and I was overwhelmed by the bodies of the athletes. Not a hint of fat, just plenty of toned lean muscle. I try not to feel intimidated by the competition as, I keep reminding myself, it’s often the unsuspecting athletes who deliver the goods.

The hiss of bike pumps and zips on wetsuits accompanied the breaking of day as sunrays brightened over Nelson Mandela Bay. I soaked up my surroundings and after putting on paint-textured suntan lotion, I kissed my fiancée and headed down to the water’s edge.

One of the buoys had been washed a few k’s out to sea and I was thankful to see a speedboat bringing it closer to shore. From the many worried faces out there, I could tell that I wasn’t the only athlete worried about the distance of the runaway buoy. I crunched my toes as I walked on the sand towards the water’s edge. Goosies prickled on my skin as the young boys and girls beat the African drums and danced on the shoreline.

My stomach rumbled. I was thankful my pasta dinner from the previous night had settled and reminded myself to take on some food the moment I got onto the bike.

The white horses from the previous day had calmed down and there were only a few small waves to contend with before the first buoy. I relaxed my breathing and said a quick prayer for my safety and for that of all the athletes.

The Swim
BANG! We were off. I waded through the water looking for a break in the melee of swimmers before diving in and taking my first stroke. Everyone seemed fairly polite in the swim although some faces appeared frantic at the first turn. I was interested to see that there was a swimmer supporting the buoy like Atlantis, the man sentenced to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. I later learnt that the buoy, which had been swept out to sea, had lost its mooring and a race-marshal was sent into the water to act as its anchor. Commitment indeed.

The swim was fantastic. Clean, warm water and the peloton quickly spread out as I made my way through the over-eager swimmers. The swells in the ocean often made me lose sight of those around me and I struggled to navigate my way along the swim course. But, after some time of avoiding thrashing arms, I found myself a fresh pair of heels and drafted for the first lap of the swim.

After 1.9k’s I exited the water almost a minute under my estimated time of 30 minutes, waved to the crowd and re-entered the water for lap 2. As I reached the first turning buoy I was struck by the downforce of the filming helicopter. Ripples stung my face and for a moment I feared the helicopter was far too close to the water, or that someone was in trouble. I half expected navy seals dressed in black-camouflage to come tumbling into the water to save the day. A man I spoke to after the race, a former chopper pilot, informed me that every aviation regulation had been contravened by flying at such a ludicrously low height. Thankfully, I was unaware of chopper height regulations, and comforted myself that the camera always follows the leaders, ergo I couldn’t be too far off the pace.

Eventually I dragged my feet onto the beach, checked my watch that read 61 minutes, and headed for the 1st transition. A new swim PB by 2 minutes.

I jogged through the transition area and in so doing overtook Barbara Buenahora, a female pro (Ironman Brazil Champion) and one of the favourites to take on the world champ, Natascha Badmann. OK – I admit I put in a surge to overtake her in transition but it’s little things like this that make me a happier person. Life, however, is all Yin-Yang, and this flash of ego was soon to be counterbalanced by my spectacular exit out of T2.

Rolling down the podium, I hopped onto my seat and attempted to clip my cleats into my pedals. A thousand spectators applauded my 54th position. I took my eyes off the road for a split-second as my foot slipped off the pedal. I counteracted by turning left and heading directly towards the centre of the traffic island. The groans of “ooh” and “aah” informed me that this was not a good move and I veered sharply to my right, throwing me completely off balance. The crowd was in for a treat. I proceeded to slip off my seat onto the bar of the bike, slightly grazing the family jewels, while my big cog dug its teeth into the calf of my right leg which I had placed on the floor to avoid falling over.

Thankfully, I was able to steady the bike and, after picking up a snake-bite flesh wound and Right-Calf-Maori-Grease-Tattoo, I managed to regain my composure. I laughed for a moment, clipped myself in and picked up speed.

That’s what happens to smart arses who try to overtake female pros in Transition.

The Bike
The bike course was composed of 3 loops of a 60km bike course. Head 30k’s in-land, turn around and ride back to the main race area along the coastal road. PE is infamous for its blustering South Easters and I hoped I wouldn’t be hindered too much by strong winds. Compared to the Surrey hills, the road was immaculate and despite holding back as much as possible, managed to rip up the course with a first lap average of 33kph.

The 2nd lap, etched in my mind for all eternity, started off just as comfortably. I concentrated on eating and drinking as much as I could and soaked up all the spectator-love for the latter stages of the race when I’d really need it. Every kid who looked at me in awe and applauded made me want to surge and pick up the pace. I resisted and stuck to my sub-150 heart rate plan.

It was a fellow competitor who confirmed that I had a puncture as I pulled into the driveway belonging to Heavenly Stables. On the opposite side of the road a family sat under the shade of the tree cheering the athletes. I pulled over to show a little of my Bike 101 magic. They began to ask me questions.

“What’s your position?” “What lap are you on?” “How far is this race?” They were astounded by the fact that the bike course was 180k’s long.

“Holy Cow, you guys are psychotic!” they shouted from the comfort of their chairs. “Want a beer?”

They kept me occupied for the next few minutes as I ripped the punctured tube off my wheel. All those punctures caused by the English grit, which I had fixed in freezing weather, proved to be great practice for race day and I swiftly replaced the tube. I then bent over and pumped air into the tube with my hand-pump.

I bid my newly formed fan club a “hasta la vista” and promised to collect my beer on my final loop. All they asked for in return was an empty Powerade bottle. I told them I’d see what I could do and headed off, fighting the cramps that needled their way into my quads and which would eventually migrate to my hamstrings. I kept in mind the motivator that my Special Needs bag was only 20k’s away at the 120k mark.

Once I reached my SN bag, I pulled out hot cross buns with peanut butter and jam. Choosing HCBs as my main form of nutrition proved to be my most costly mistake of the day. Training with HCBs in cold weather is fine, because they maintain their moisture in the warmth of my jacket. HCBs, as I soon discovered, are not summer food. To say that the buns had dried out sufficiently would be like calling biltong juicy. It took me a few k’s to get a mouthful down, and it made breathing difficult. Before long the half-eaten buns I gripped in my hands were covered in sweat and Piz Buin.

The Special Needs bag is 2 things for me: (1) a placebo and (2) energy for the run. On the day it would act as neither and hitting the 130k mark my stomach felt bloated and empty at the same time. At that point I realised I hadn’t passed water, or even felt like passing water, the entire day. I felt myself going into DefCon 1 and poured as much water as I could down my throat.

The last 2 hours of the bike ride proved to be a battle which would slowly deplete my energy levels. As I headed inland one last time I was struck with a headwind that made it difficult to ride, let alone chew my desiccated HCB. The last big climb saw me in my granny gear, huffing and puffing, pushing 15kph. My energy was dwindling and my inability to swallow food wasn’t helping.

The cramps locked onto my legs at regular intervals for the last 30k’s and every time I tried to get into my pace, my muscles would spasm painfully and cause me to slow down. Competitors shouted their encouragement as they whizzed past me. Even on a bad day I look forward to the run, but with my body being weakened to the bone with each cramp, I wondered how on earth I’d make the run. My average speed dropped down to 25kph and I jettisoned any chance of getting a sub-11, opting rather to hang on for dear life.

To keep my mind occupied, I took the time to think of logistically how I’d get Heavenly Stables that Powerade bottle. The trouble was that I could only hold 2 bottles on my bike and with my condition needed both to keep my body saturated. So I grabbed a water bottle from an aid station, emptied its contents, unzipped my Specsavers race vest and tucked the bottle under my vest. In my semi-delirious state, I imagined the joy that my gesture would bring to the Heavenly Stables crew, which in turn would bring me untold karma and put me back in contention for a decent race. A few minutes later I saw the gates to the driveway had been closed and the spectators had packed away their deck chairs and called it a day. I took out the bottle, exhaled, and flung it over the harsh steel of the front gate.

I crawled into T2, tired and weary, 15 minutes later than expected, in a time of 6.15.

The Run
When the body is under pressure the mind tends to drift, often I think, to survive the effects of that pressure. But in blocking the pain, you tend to forget the little things. Like Vaseline between the toes. And little things like that will come back and bite you.

I prepped myself for the run and relieved myself with an overdue pee, which caused me great concern as I had lost sensation in my groin area. I reminded myself to buy myself a seat with additional big-boy-breathing-space. This is only a race after all.

I hit the road and realised immediately that I felt terrible. My legs were still quivering from the bike ride like a vibrating arrow, and a stitch began to ripen under the right of my rib cage. It felt what I would imagine a torn muscle feels like. The pain will go away, I thought to myself, it always does. I gave myself 5k’s before I’d start running properly and shuffled along.

I took on board 2 boiled baby potatoes and hoped that it’d make up for my HCB crisis. At 5k’s, with the pain constant, I picked up the pace. If there’s a choice between going slow or fast and there’s pain involved when you do either, then I’d rather go fast. I handle pain better than I do second place. And plus Ironmen are hardcore.

After 10 metres of having increased my speed - WHAM - my left hamstring was gripped by a bullet-cramp which spun my body to one side. I rode with it, moving sideways like soccer players do, and kept going forward. When in doubt keep going forward, always forward. After a few metres both my hamstrings cramped, forcing me to turn around completely and run backwards. I rubbed my hammies as I ran and felt the contraction of the muscle as though induced by an electric current. My main concern was to prevent my muscles from tearing. There was, after all, still 36k’s let to run.

After running backwards for a few hundred metres, to the chagrin of the crowd lining the streets, I swivelled and trudged along at a fairly pedestrian pace. As opposed to running at below my Aerobic Threshold pace, I chose to run at below my Cramp Threshold pace, which is about the same speed as an intoxicated senior citizen’s speed-walk session. My heart rate was a bit scattered and I concentrated on getting into The Zone and not worrying too much about the cramps, and blisters which were starting to grow under my feet.

It has to be said – running along the Indian Ocean on a beautiful day surrounded by the camaraderie of fellow athletes with the knowledge that this was my last race as a bachelor was rather comforting. Despite the failings of my body, I was still happy to be alive and part of the race. And happy to be part of such a brotherhood (or is it sorority?) of athletes.

The spirit between the competitors and the supporters was electric. Every supporter shouted and applauded no matter how appalling the athlete. Every athlete I encountered offered a word of encouragement, whether they were overtaking or being overtaken. Like fellow soldiers fighting a long war. Which reminded me of a theory I have, that humans - those of us who are not war-tempered - will seek events which are tantamount to a battle, because it is in our nature to test our spirit and reserves. That’s why there’s been a significant boost in big game sports over the last half century. Football, rugby and athletics have rarely had it so good. 50 years ago you would have struggled to find a long distance runner, whereas today you’re surrounded by people who’ve finished a marathon. Tempering of the spirit increases our resolve to withstand life-threatening situations. That is, I believe, a big reason why we do what we do. Also, chicks dig spandex.

The rest of the run was blurred by a melange of baked potatoes, syrupy energy bars and Powerade stuck to my inner thighs. My stomach bloated and the stitch in my ribs continued to twist in my side. The pain would stay with me for the next 2 days.

The clouds darkened over Nelson Mandela Bay and lightning streaked the skies over the harbour pointing the way to the finish line. The scream of the crowds guided me to the spectacular blue finish line alongside Hobie Beach. My goose bumps flared as I soaked up the applause. My emotions brimmed threatening to spill over. My hamstring cramped spontaneously as I headed down the chute causing me to hobble and jump as though I was in a celebratory dance-shuffle in commemoration of the return of the Ironman to Africa’s shores. I made the line, high-fived the announcer and thrust my arms into the air.

Shosho-frigging-Loza!

In the end, I came 190th overall and my 4.12 marathon brought me in with a time of 11.41.

Out of the 750 who lined up at the start of the race, 80 never saw the finish line.

Sport Elizabeth, as it shall be known henceforth, taught me many things:

1. The race isn’t over until you get to the finish line.
2. Nutrition really is the fourth discipline.
3. And most importantly, Ironmen races and weddings don’t mix.

• Following my argument with the finish line marshal regarding my refusal to take the medical rescue buggy, I ended up walking the 100metres to the recovery tent – backwards.
• Barbara Buenahora later pulled out of the race in the bike ride. I like to think that my overtaking manoeuvre in T1 crushed her psychologically.
• The following week I ran the Two Oceans Half Marathon with my cousin, Paolo, who flew in from Italy for the wedding, in a time of 1.55.
• 2 weeks after the Ironman, the beautiful Natalie (my number one supporter) and I were married on a winefarm in Stellenbosch, just outside Cape Town.
• Ironman Switzerland. 17th July. The date has been set. Bring it to daddy.

Be bold,
RobbyRicc

To suffer one must find beauty in the pain.
Marco Pantani